InkSpotter News

Information and Support for Creative Writers

 Published by InkSpotter Writing & Editing

Volume 2.06                August 2004

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In This Issue

Editorial

Bookmarks

Feature Article

Paying Markets

Pen & Ink

Contests

Online Resources

Bragging Rights

Letters to the Editor

Editorial

The Summer from Hell, Part Two

The first order of business was to buy a house. Don't ask why. It's just something I always wanted to do. I set myself a one-year deadline, started saving like crazy, and found a shortcut six months later.

In the meantime, I stumbled into some more good luck. I didn't set out looking for love, but it found me anyway. Not long after that, the ideal job fell into my lap.

Looking for a little writing inspiration and camaraderie? Join the Literary Lapse mailing list.

THIS SPACE

Writer Gazette

Bringing you FREE writer-related articles, paying calls

for submission and freelance job postings, contests,

resources, tips, and more to help induce, improve, and

Worldwide Freelance Writer

Freelance markets from all over the world.

THIS SPACE

Bookmarks

Each issue, Betty Dobson uses this space to share her writing successes from the past month. With any luck, she'll never run out of material.

Feature Article

An Appreciation of Tolkien

I haven’t read everything he’s written, but I have absorbed all of the Ring Saga from The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings (LOTR), The Silmarillion, and the Unfinished Tales collated by his son, Christopher. Any fantasy poll I have seen rates him number one, almost without exception, but it is misleading. I say that because it is readily apparent that not all those who swear by his work are devotees of fantasy. In fact, I know many admirers who say they’ve never read anything else because they don’t really care for the genre. What’s really going on is that Tolkien transcends all genres with the Ring, so much so that the books have created a cult of aficionados to such an extent that no other author can make that claim. Yet those who are addicted to the genre also claim that the Ring defines modern fantasy more than anything else and prescribes its limits, almost a conundrum in itself.

What we have here is a monumental work that commenced as a simple children’s tale and blossomed into a drama of such vast dimensions that it overwhelms most of us with its implications and complex messages. Yet Tolkien complained that it was too short for what he really wanted. Some critics claim that WWII influenced the writings tremendously, especially because the man was caught up in it and deeply affected, though he denied it. Clearly he was plagued by his personal war and undoubtedly used man’s most common activity to show his readers that it could be overcome, that there was always hope, regardless of how powerful the forces of evil might seem. That was also the message of Ghandi, if you recall, only Tolkien made it personal, initially for youngsters with the Hobbit and eventually for the rest of us.

I have read a critique that chastised the Ring as juvenile because it avoided a confrontation with sexual and other issues that trouble our civilization. That is unfair, because in creating Middle Earth, Tolkien was painting a world where virtue, truth and honor, the key symbols of the best parts of our real Middle Ages, could be realized if only we conquered our darker selves. That was the main message of the Trilogy. To assist him in this glorified vision of what we were and could still be, he peopled his story with magical denizens and demons, all of whom possessed unique powers and characteristics. Yet every upstanding resident had a counterbalancing foe, a perfect representation of the good and evil in all of us. For the elves there were goblins, for the dwarves, wargs and dragons, for men there were Southrons and Ringwraiths, for ents there were trolls.

Even Gandalf, the ultimate hero, was opposed by Saruman and Sauron, Shadowfax by the steeds of the Nazgul, and Frodo and Bilbo by Gollum, Ungoliant and many others. The whole point of all this confrontation was the war within ourselves to allow good to triumph over bad, to permit ourselves to take the wonderful things given to us by God and allow them to develop as they should without marring their inherent beauty. Tolkien's message clearly shows us that we must suffer much in order to enjoy the benefits of such fruit, that if we are willing to do that, all is not lost. This, of course, is more than the promise of fantasy and the reason why the Ring is so powerful even today. Still, the story is unquestionably couched in fantastic terms, with languages, dialects, and vivid descriptions of lands and peoples of such unique traits that we find ourselves dreaming about the place.

Having created a brilliant scenario, Tolkien then decided to fortify and strengthen the image with mythology and private histories. As in The Hobbit, he made full use of poetic interludes and songs to intrigue us with specialized verses, applicable to portions of hidden sagas, mystical elements and fragments of dreams within dreams to tantalize our imaginations. This, even more than the main story, solidifies the drama as a fantasy and elevates it above any other ever written to date. To give that much attention to the minuscule is an extraordinary effort that no other writer is willing to engage, at least so far. He describes other ages and delineates a believable path whereupon we see with clarity how the final war comes about and ends with the utter destruction of Morgoth and the enemies he has fashioned over an incredibly long span of time, beauty and terror.

To those who say they don’t like the work or cannot get into it, I suspect that they haven’t given it a chance or are being lazy or dishonest about attempting it because of its length. It is a first-class mind shaper, one that covers all the emotions, foibles and strengths of all of us with considerable wit and style. It is couched in easily readable fashion with tons of surprises, twists and turns and a denouement second to none. Read it for true and prove me wrong. I doubt if you can do it.

Tolkien writes with a passion and literacy that few achieve. I got the impression that the man was sorry to let the work end, that he might have been satisfied to continue it forever and even lose himself within its intricacy, so mightily did he craft the world. This is more than mere entertainment, more than just fantasy. It is a genius and a work of art to be held in awe by readers and reverence as authors. To reinforce my opinion, the filmmakers have been trying desperately to capture the quality of the work, especially LOTR, for many years. The new film by Peter Jackson continues even as I write this, one that we Tolkien admirers hope will do the story justice and put its real impact on the screen. I sincerely hope it succeeds as well as its first segment. 

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Paying Markets

Sometimes you just gotta have faith--but that faith is often difficult to find.

Spirit-Led Writer - A resource for Christians who write in fiction and nonfiction genres for Christian and secular markets. It is for the beginner, intermediate and advanced writer.

Rights: One-time electronic and print rights (for their accompanying ezine).

Pays: $20 upon publication (within 30 days) for original articles; $10 upon publication (within 30 days) for reprints

Shared Vision - "A free monthly magazine distributed throughout Vancouver and B.C.’s Lower Mainland. We aim to help local readers create a better life through useful information involving social justice, spiritual growth, health and environmental awareness."

Rights: Not stated

Pays: Negotiated with writer

The Llewellyn Journal - Publishes articles on metaphysics, astrology, magic, spirituality, alternative healing, and associated topics.

The Llewellyn Journal
C/o Editor
P.O. Box 64383
St. Paul MN  55164-0383

Rights: Articles are considered "Works for Hire" but will be released on request (per publication's guidelines) for republication in book format

Pays: $75 within 30 days of publication

FNASR - First North American Serial Rights.

Before submitting your work to any publication, be sure to read their writers' guidelines.

Want links to paying Canadian markets?

Pen & Ink 

William Alan Rieser (a.k.a. Penumbra) joins Betty Dobson (a.k.a. InkSpotter) as co-editor of this new column. "Pen & Ink" features poetry and prose from The Writers Association's growing list of anthologies.

This month's selections--the short story "Deity" by Jennifer England and the poem "Untamed in Acrylic" by Rebecca Adkins--were published in Journey, currently available from Lulu Books.

DEITY
By Jennifer England

From simple existence comes a slow awakening. Awareness fits awkwardly, forced around an unnatural form. It itches. A sense of self is yet amorphous, as tenuous as the drive to leave the sunlight and enter unknown territory. Change is coming and it feels foreign to this body, as does thought, but the urge to travel is strong and movement is easy.

* * *

Bright, mellow light fills this room of smooth open spaces. The sun is warm but shiny tiles, clean and clear, radiate coolness. Far above, an afternoon breeze gently strokes the leaves outside this calm place, making their shadows dance in great wavering flickers across the tile expanse of the floor and roll softly into the vast, pile forest.     

Beyond the forest (rug) looms a cliff, white and shiny, the outer restraint of a now-empty ocean. The monolith opposite holds a much smaller ocean, one with strange currents and, to these unique senses, fascinating odors. Other forms abound, gentle and sharp, large, textured, bright and dark, and names float up from murky, alien memory: hamper, towel, mirror. Such things are not important to this small body.

The journey to the high, bright place is long, punctuated by necessary pauses at the rumble of vibrations or the tickle of a breath of air. The floor tastes of mammal skin, earth, and sharp chemicals. Beckoning, tantalizing aromas waft from the high reaches (window) above that encourage movement, hastening, toward the promise of food. Though arduous, the climb up to the brightness upon perfect rough footholds invigorates and awakens appetite. The small tremors and winds have become familiar, danger-freeze is no longer necessary, and the trek is soon over.

Long legs working together, I pull myself up over the edge onto the sunlit wood. I am here. Now I can see.

* * *  

I have explored this small section of the greater dwelling, the bathroom, but have found the window to be the most comfortable, with its convenient corners and warming afternoon sunlight. The glass is deceptive for the winged creatures, providing easy, nutritious meals; when the husks are pushed over the edge to fall onto the far-away tiles they are not noticeable to the two large creatures that occasionally intrude.

A deep crevice in the wood bordering the upper glass is the true treasure, a refuge from caustic, deadly liquid and speeding, swiping cloths that would obliterate this body. A crisp, early morning glow brightens the room, more silver than gold because the sun is on the other side of this enormous abode.

Comfortable and sated after eating, I lounge, drinking-tasting-smelling the air, watching the light change as the sun climbs ponderously above and behind the house. I can hear one of the familiar mammals, the female (woman), her voice obscured as the sound bounces off and through walls, strongest from the doorway across from the window. These sounds were once roars and menacing growls but now have meaning and significance, purpose. Memories continue to ooze like bile from the depths, strange and powerful things that fit oddly in me as I am now.

Something is growing, forming itself from the past, and threatening this pleasant existence. I know more than I should, somehow, and the world is sloughing it’s simplicity as, in bits and pieces, the assault of enlightenment continues.

The woman’s voice speaks and then pauses, speaks and then pauses, and in those pauses I can hear only the, “His flight left at 7:30 ... Yeah, it was cheaper than a later flight but better than the red-eye ... No, he comes back on Tuesday ... It’s something about publishing, but I’m not sure what ... Uh-uh. I thought about it, but it would’ve been too much money. He gets reimbursed ... Yeah, someday, maybe.”

She moves around in that cavernous room beyond the walls, sending rolling vibrations through the wood with her great limbs and heavy steps. The steps stop, followed by creaking, and then the whip-sharp click that always precedes acrid smoke. From the dark unknown comes the understanding that she is smoking. The image of a pipe, tubes like slender, somnolent snakes, is a memory but it does not quite fit.      

“Sounds cool ... So hey, what are you doing tonight? I have this recipe, sort of a Caribbean-style chicken thingy that I was going to try out. You want to come over and try some? ... Sure, whatever time. If I’m not done, you can help ... Yeah, bring it over! ... Alright, see you later.”

The air is redolent with smoke; the woman’s voice lilts, rising and falling in smooth tones (humming) that blend with the gentleness of the day.

* * *

The in-flux of knowledge continues. It creeps and slinks, insinuating itself where simplicity once reigned, covering the pleasure that was ignorance like a virulent fungus. Pungent, ripe, warm and green, it colors the world with names that were once unnecessary. That sustenance, liquid ambrosia that was once a fly, had never needed a name. Now it has become not only a fly, but insect and pest. I now remember that the thought of eating one would have brought profound disgust at one time ... to others.      With the names have come such concepts: revulsion, beauty, love, hate, yearning, death, deity ... There will be completion, I know. The future is pregnant, swelling with the promise of all-embracing awareness. I wait.

* * *

Rich aromas that would tempt senses other than these roll through the dwelling. The clanking and crashing of cooking utensils and the thunderous footfalls of the woman are un-syncopated counterpoint to a music that fills the air. The music remains a mystery, pulsing and wailing, throbbing, an unknown with no counterpart in the morass of memories. I hear knocking on the door and then a man’s voice, but it is not the familiar man. Then the woman speaks. The words are muffled, murmuring, rumbling, punctuated by sharp laughter. I push the sounds away as I sense something stirring high up on the glass, and this body is ready, tense and trained, hungry. But through the hunt I am vaguely aware of the people who have begun to signify more than they once did. They talk and eat, move and laugh; they are cocooned by the walls and the strange music as the sun sets in gold glory.

* * *

The juices of the hard-won prey cool as the temperature cools, as this body cools, bringing sweet lethargy. From beyond the walls the voices, more melodious than the music, still drone. Appeasement of physical hunger has quickened a new hunger (curiosity). I listen. I concentrate while the body rests, sated, on the darkened windowsill. Their voices mingle and flow in altered cadences like storm-whipped leaves, off-rhythm, with strange interludes and distorted emphasis. (They are drunk.)      Occasionally sharp and raucous, overpowering the music, and at other times so soft as to be silent, their human sounds compel and beckon. The urge to move, to join them, to intervene is an itch at odds with the instincts of this body. I sit, still, waiting for that unknown culmination that is somehow approaching. Heavy reverberations travel through the wood as the sound of footsteps comes nearer through the walls. Words are now distinct.

“... just got to take a leak.”

With a click, blinding brilliance fills the world. Instinct is too strong: legs propel the body backwards, upwards, and then contract. From within the safe crack in the wood, the sink and mirror are visible. A man looks into the mirror. He is the other man. The back of his head is a forest of black, shaggy hair and the one eye visible in the mirror beyond is brown, bloodshot, capped by the caterpillar-ruff of an eyebrow. He stares into the mirror and then turns away, out of view. His elimination is a waterfall; the heavy taste-smell of urine bites through the other floating chemicals that form a sense-picture of this human: sweat, musk, something sticky and sweet. He groans. Echoing, torrential, I feel-hear the toilet flush and then the man returns to the mirror.

Two hands comb the wilderness on his head and then he turns slightly and smiles at his reflection and his unseen audience. A wink of one dark eye indicates his approval and hints at slyness or conspiracy. I can taste his excitement in the air. These senses discern more than the mask he wears, a mask that would be opaque to a human. Like a double image, the thin, outer shell covers seething darkness and rot that is at once powerful and empty. The smile fades and once again there is just that one dark eye in the mirror, staring into its unseen twin behind the hair, expressionless.

This body recognizes violence in the air, smells danger, and tenses at the heavy threat. Then the man whirls and darkness descends once more. I move slowly, cajoling instinct-frozen muscles to action, and emerge from the crack. The hum of voices is once again beneath and around the music, sound and pressure, overlaid now, somehow, with dread and expectation. I am yet powerless. I am excited and fearful. I tingle.

* * *

Concussions of force pound through the structure of the house as a loud crash ends the music. The woman’s scream is piercing and sweet, soaring above deep masculine curses and flesh striking flesh. Running, their feet drum a frantic beat of primal music and the bathroom door is the finale, a crescendo as it rebounds from the wall with the force of their arrival. His harsh, massive breathing provides dark contrast to her high, mewling sobs, a sublime duet. The moist, earthy blood is heavy in the air, absorbed through these alien senses and savored by my being, past and present. Their shadowy forms twist and writhe on the floor in a sensuous struggle.

Captivated, I watch and remember ecstatic triumphs of plague and war, a time before this small, insignificant form. The woman is quiet now, motionless. I can still taste the terror and frenzy, the flavor of destruction, the aroma of evil. The man’s breathing whispers like a gentle wind that follows the raging storm. From his skin ooze chemicals that were once exciting but now smell-taste stale and spent. These senses read blankness from his being, as though all of his passion and force were expelled in that single explosion of violence.

A perfect vehicle. A vessel. I wait.

He breathes quietly, still, leaning over the woman’s body. When he stands and turns on the light I subdue instinct and remain on the open ledge. His fingers leave red, enigmatic exclamations on the wall and light switch. In the mirror: the single dark, expressionless eye. The eye shifts and focuses on this small body. Motionless, calm, he stares from the mirror, as though in recognition. When he turns, there is a puzzled frown on his face. He reaches out with one bloodstained finger, but whether to obliterate or caress is uncertain. Does he, my door and my conduit, know me? He will, and his education will be my justice and my return. When he hesitates, his finger trembling before me, I am ready to reclaim what I was.

UNTAMED IN ACRYLIC
By Rebecca Adkins

If I were an artist,
I would splash exotic colors
across an ivory canvas:
plummery purple whirling a swirl
around a scarlet Macaw,
emerald eyes reflected
in liquid golden aquafire.
I would bejewel my virgin slate.
I dream of hot colors
that sizzle on the pallet;
blazing tangerine and shocking pink
in a tango that would make
a libertine blush.
I’d paint brazen images
in flamboyant hues:
turquoise peacocks
sweeping sapphire feathers
through the raspberry dazzle
of stained glass light,
lemon saffron silk
in a fan-dancer shimmy.
And if my masterpiece came to life,
sashayed out on a moonlit night,
even the shadow cast
would be in sensual pastels.

Contests 

If you can't decide where to go on vacation next year, why not consider taking in a festival? If you play your cards right, you might get your travel costs partially or fully covered by way of a writing contest.

The following deadlines are based on 2004 festival information. Check the website for full details of the 2005 festival.

Screenplay Competition deadline: May 7. Entry fee: $40. Categories: Adult/Family and Comedy.

Prime Time Teleplay Competition deadline: June 1. Entry fee: $30. Categories: Sitcom and Drama.

Film Competition early deadline: June 15. Entry fee: $40. Categories: Feature, Short, and Student Short. 
     Late deadline: July 15. Entry Fee: $50.

Deadline: October 1, 2004
Entry Fee: $20 for the first entry and $5 for each additional story
Prizes: 1^st prize $250, 2^nd prize $100 and 3^rd prize $50 (all fees go towards the 2004 gritLIT Writers' Festival)

Annual Deadline: Postmarked by July 31st and received by August 6th (begins accepting submission May 1st)
Entry Fee: $20 (for up to three songs)
Prize: $700

Award-Winning Author Tells All

 - Learn Her Coveted Secrets -

 Write Short Stories

AND

 Get Them Published

CLICK THE COVER AT RIGHT 

Online Resources 

Although it's been said a million times and a million ways, the phrase bears repeating; writing is a solitary vocation.

If you find yourself in too many engaging conversations with your cat, consider joining one of these writer-friendly groups.

Bragging Rights

This is the space where subscribers get to do a little bragging about their own writing successes. Don't be shy. We want to hear from you.

I Promise Not to Tell was chosen as one of two Summer Reads for the year on the Recovery World web site and featured on eNotAlone website with sample chapters.

I was interviewed by Lauretta Pierce of Literary World on July 25, 2004...listed on Literary World, and [had] a radio interview [on] August 11, 2004 at 7 pm Eastern with ArtistFirst World Radio Network. A live one-hour interview by Maxine Thompson of Literary World.

I was named Author of the Month of November, 2004 by The Good Book Club of Colorado.

Thanks for such an interesting newsletter, and here's wishing you lots of success with your own writing projects.

Letters to the Editor

This is your chance to provide feedback on the newsletter. Tell us what you did and didn't like. Make suggestions for future issues. 

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Jean Madigan